Chapter 1
There was something strange about the clinic. Abby knew it the moment she stepped inside.
The Integris Rheumatology Center buzzed with the usual Monday chaos — printers jamming, patients arriving too early, phones ringing off the hook. Abby moved through it like she’d done this forever. Take vitals. Smile politely. Try not to die from boredom.
Patient One was Mrs. Jenkins, 73, rheumatoid arthritis, sweet as pie. Talked about her cats. Normal.
Patient Two was a young guy with chronic joint pain who joked about being old at 25. Abby laughed. Normal.
Patient Three... was a little strange.
He didn’t give a last name. Just “Ronan.” He said he didn’t remember his date of birth. His blood pressure was barely there — but he looked fine. Skin a little pale, maybe. Eyes a little too dark. She shrugged it off.
Patient Four was even weirder.
She never blinked. Abby noticed it halfway through taking her temperature — her eyes just stayed open. Staring at the light above like it hurt. When Gwen asked if she needed anything, she just whispered,
"Not during the day."
And then came Harper.
Room 17. Tall. Silent. Skin like paper. He didn’t flinch at the needle, didn’t blink when Lexy asked for his ID. His chart said “routine labs,” but his blood?
It shimmered.
Abby stared at the vial in her hand. Not glowing. Not glittery. Just... shimmery, like oil in water.
And she knew, deep in her gut:
This wasn’t routine.
This was the beginning.
Abby held the vial up to the light.
It was still red — mostly. But if she tilted it, the edges seemed to shift into dark violet. For a second, she thought she saw the reflection of her own face... blink.
Behind her, Lexy’s voice floated from the front desk.
“Hey, Gwen? Do we still have Harper’s old labs? It says he was here last year but... there’s nothing scanned.”
Gwen leaned over her computer, frowning. “That’s weird. He’s not even in Athena. Like... completely gone.”
“Angie said she didn’t check him in. He just walked in and sat down.” Lexy’s tone dropped, just a touch. “Said he had an appointment. And we were... too busy to notice.”
Jacquayla brushed past Abby with a chart in her hands. “Weird patient day today,” she mumbled. “One of mine didn’t have a reflection in the mirror box. I thought I was losing it.”
Abby laughed softly, but her grip tightened on the vial.
She turned back to Harper’s room.
Empty.
The paper was still on the table, rumpled from where he’d sat. But the door was open, the room was quiet — and Harper was just... gone.
No discharge note. No signature. No sound.
Just the faint scent of something cold and metallic in the air.
Like blood, but not.
Abby dropped the vial into the lab bin, hands suddenly clammy.
Maybe it was just a weird day.
Maybe she was tired.
But as she turned away, she could’ve sworn she heard it — just beneath the hum of the fluorescent lights.
A growl.
Very low.
Very quiet.
Not human.
